Fred knew he was on the bubble. Federal workers all knew that, and he was a newbie, on probation since he’d been hired here in Canyon County from the station back east. His expertise was grass and range and he thought this should be the promised land.
He loved meeting with the producers in Owyhee County. They had their acres and cows and knew the seasons, the grasses, the problems. He knew the invasives, the problems, and they had good sense. It was simpatico. He thought they deserved some support. Heck, they’d been there for generations.
He sometimes didn’t like the Canyon County requests for government money.
There was the Ethiopian lady raising vegetables for the local market. She needed a hoop house to get her plants started early. It wouldn’t cost much, and he thought she’d be helping out the local markets. He tried to explain to her the forms she’d need to fill out.
That was his job. He had to approve requests for government funding to improve the production of their land.
In Canyon County, “rangeland” required quotation marks, since these applicants’ raised alpacas or show horses. A center pivot funded by federal dollars to have more Clydesdales. Well, that was his job.
But today he had to go to Ada County. Somebody wanted to get federal dollars for their fifty acres on the hills above the Capitol. Ada County sucked. And federal dollars can be the fire hose.
Fred got his papers on the front seat of his rig. This government issue vehicle might be soon dispatched, he knew. As might be his job. He sighed and drove into the pit.
The site was up in the foothills. A McMansion and asphalt showed him where to park. Down in the Owyhee, it was dust and tire tracks he followed.
“Hello, Mr. James, I’m Fred from…”
The big bellied applicant cut him off. “Yeah, you’re from the government and you’re here to help me.” He grinned and crunched Fred’s hand.
Fred tried to hide his wince but now figured just how this was to go. “So, you have this application,”
Big belly cut him off. “Yeah, my accountant told me I could get you guys to pay for my fencing and irrigation on this rangeland I have here.” He swept his arm out beyond the 3000 square foot mansion to the sage brush slope. “See, I think with some water this could be beautiful grassland. And I need a privacy fence all around it. Damn mountain bikers are all up in here.”
Fred knew this was not going to go well, but he did his best.
“We give grants to promote improvement for livestock…”
Belly cut him off. “Hell, you federales give grants to promote transgender livestock. Why can’t I get some of your money to drill a well and build a fence?”
Fred looked at the face. He was a belligerent, grinning man. He was sure he was right. He just wanted the government’s money that Fred was in charge of.
Fred took a deep breath. He looked Big Belly in the eye. “Mister. Your application for federal grants cannot be approved. I can give you all the reasons, and I can cite the federal laws. But that will be in the report I send back to you.”
Fred drove back down through the Idaho capital and out the connector to his single wide in Canyon County. He didn’t think this interaction would help his performance evaluation.
Fred got some really good pupusas at a truck in Caldwell before he went home.
He checked his work email as he opened a Budweiser on the kitchen table.
So, he now had to look for work.
Dan Schmidt is a retired family physician who lives in Moscow. Dr. Schmidt, a Democrat, served in the Idaho state senate from 2010 to 2016.
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